


Five Times Charlie Called Da Kurlzz Gay, and One Time He Was Right

by unicornwarrior



Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:56:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8307637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornwarrior/pseuds/unicornwarrior
Summary: Hello everyone! So, this is a very special story, dedicated to a very special person.It's a birthday present for a very, very dear friend of mine, whom I am not sure will be comfortable with me mentioning their name here, so I'll just say this:Happy, happy birthday! Thank you so much for existing, and I'm incredibly happy that we're friends. You're an amazing person and I'm so unbelievable grateful that you're here and you listen to my dumb ramblings all the time.So.This is also my first jab at writing one of these '5+1 times' things, so don't hate me if it's bad. I know it's a ridiculous present, but I wanted to give you something, and this is the only thing I could think of. Love,M





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dream_addicted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_addicted/gifts).



> Hello everyone! 
> 
> So, this is a very special story, dedicated to a very special person.  
> It's a birthday present for a very, very dear friend of mine, whom I am not sure will be comfortable with me mentioning their name here, so I'll just say this:  
> Happy, happy birthday! Thank you so much for existing, and I'm incredibly happy that we're friends. You're an amazing person and I'm so unbelievable grateful that you're here and you listen to my dumb ramblings all the time.  
> So.  
> This is also my first jab at writing one of these '5+1 times' things, so don't hate me if it's bad. I know it's a ridiculous present, but I wanted to give you something, and this is the only thing I could think of. 
> 
> Love,  
> M

_1_

We’ve all seen the whole “When I say Da Kurlzz, you say faggot!” ordeal go down. We’ve all had a good laugh over it, we’ve all acted slightly affronted by Jordon’s disrespect for me (his best friend, thank you very much) and we’ve all secretly laughed our asses off about it. We’ve all thought, ‘hey, this guy’s funny!’ and we’ve all pretended not to think it’s funny at all, if only for my sake.  
Been there. 

And I have to say, I really don’t mind. I’m a good sport on my worst days; one of the perks that come with being the most picked on in your group of friends (for over twenty years, may I add). I’m actually more than okay with Jordon’s tendency to make fun of me, and me only. It’s a warped sort of oh-hey-he’s-paying-attention-to-me thing, and I’m less ashamed of it than I probably should be if I were a sane sentient being. 

What I do mind is what’s happening right now. There’s a certain thick texture to the air when we go onstage, probably because everyone heard Jay and Aron argue (quite loudly) just outside the improvised dressing room in a storage chamber in the back of the dingy bar we’re playing tonight. It’s more than slightly awkward, but it’s happened before, so we cope. 

When the first notes of ‘Undead’ fill the room, only few people look up while most of them still tend to nothing but their beers, their conversations drowned out by the badly installed monitor box next to my kit. 

Jordon looks like he usually does (probably because his face is covered – you’re such a genius, Matty-Boy), not even pulling the fraction of a face at the prior fight. I’m pretty sure that he doesn’t particularly care about what went down just inside our band mere minutes ago; which is something that either impresses or angers me. Even Dylan looked a little shook when he heard the angry shouts of “You don’t give a fuck about anything our band does!” and Aron’s sharp retort of “At least I’m not fucking a bandmate’s slutty sister ‘cause I can’t get no other chick!”. All while George was positively fuming about Aron’s by-the-way mention of his sister’s presumable promiscuity (which is non-existent). 

Aron is standing a little off the others, having moved himself toward the edge of the stage, purposely putting himself at the front of the band. I can’t say I don’t feel a little bitter toward the guy. 

As the sounds of Sell Your Soul fade into the night, Jordon coolly steps forward, eliminating all protest coming from Aron with a simple motion of his hand – one that goes unnoticed by the audience but has the rest of the band gasping for air a little. 

After the customary greetings and thank-yous directed at the crowd, Jordon takes a sharp left turn, and my mouth dries up. 

“So, you all know about this twenty-first century tolerance shit,” he says, and this is the first time that night that I can hear how much the slowly dissipating state of our band is affecting him behind the front through the way that his voice goes evenly. There’s no emotion, no venom in what he’s talking about. And that, that and only that, is the reason why I don’t get mad afterwards. “Which is why we can’t kick anyone out of the band just ‘cause he’s fuckin’ flaming.” Everybody who doesn’t know Jordon probably misses the bored tone, the loveless insult lilting off his lips. But I don’t. “Da Kurlzz! You got fuckin’ lucky!” 

A few tired laughs amass from the considerable crowd of people scattered throughout the bar, while some others shake their heads, appalled at Jordon’s futile attempt at involving the audience. This is going to be a long night; I can already tell. 

I didn’t notice before, but I’m twirling my drumstick rapidly, my fingers working quicker than Jordon’s mouth. It’s a nervous habit I picked up as a kid, and somehow never quite managed to shake it. 

“This next song is called Bottle and a Gun, and I wanna dedicate it to this gay-ass motherfucker behind the drums!” yells Jordon obnoxiously, and we launch ourselves into the next song. 

I run on autopilot for the rest of the night, and I don’t look Jordon in the eyes when we walk offstage where Jay immediately picks up his phone to call his girlfriend Jade, Aron goes to sulk with his idiotic friend Jimmy Yuma (who just so loves to rile him up against the rest of us even more) and George walks off to get as shitfaced as possible without drinking himself into a coma. 

Dylan is already talking to a girl, and I somehow get her friend to take me back to her apartment, where I try desperately to rid myself of the feeling of not being what Jordon would ever want. 

_2_

The first record company we sign with is full of music-hating corporate pigs, and we leave them after a too-long period of hassling. The period between two record companies is awful and lasts longer than we would have liked, and our debts grow day by day. 

Finally, however, another producer comes along and we finally release Swan Songs in 2008. It feels ridiculous to think that we’ve somehow ‘made it’, but I let myself enjoy the thought for a few minutes until George brings me back by patting a large hand on my shoulder. I kind of feel like I’m getting the wind knocked out of me quite violently, what with the whole ordeal about ‘sober strength’, but I try not to wheeze and look up expectantly. 

“Matty, the fuck are you smiling at?” he asks roughly, and Jay shortly looks up from where he’s been typing out a text (I don’t even pretend not to know whom it is addressed at – him and Jade have been attached at the hip and I have a feeling that rings will be involved quite soon) to see what the commotion is about. 

Jordon makes an offhand comment about me smiling at the imagine of male genitalia, and I ignore him in favour of talking to George. 

“I was just thinking about how awesome the record turned out,” I say, and George, surprisingly enough, throws me an easy smile. 

He’s been a lot more bearable since he got sober, actually. I kind of chalk his decision to abstain up to his sister’s alternating pushing and pulling. She’s a good one, Jade. 

Which I can’t say for the girl Jordon has brought here. I don’t like her; she looks like the kind of girl that would sell her boyfriend for parts if offered a suitable prize. But it’s not like he really listens to me anyway.

“Yeah,” says Dylan, who’s completely baked. 

I think Jordon and his girl are fighting, actually. She looks mad, and he simply looks worn-out, almost like he can’t truly be bothered anymore. The question as to why I’m only just noticing this now shoots through my skull like a bullet, but I push it down with the promise of asking him about it later. 

And this, only this, is the reason why I don’t get furiously mad at Jordon when he sees my almost blissfully happy expression and says, “Jesus Christ, you look like someone just fucked out your brains,” says Jordon, with a mean smile on his lips. “And by that I mean, fucked you in the ass so hard that your brains came out your nose.” 

I pull a face, but try to refrain from doing anything. 

The next thing I can think of is to grab my phone quickly and send a short text to a girl I’ve been hooking up with lately, asking her to come over later tonight. 

And I don’t think about Jordon when I fuck her. 

 

_3_

There’s something inexplicably unsettling about hearing your own voice on the radio. That, among other things, is the reason why I don’t want to sing for Hollywood Undead, why I’ve decided to speak through drumming rather than words. I prefer not being intelligible and not being understood in the case that someone actually hears me. 

Jordon, however, has never had a graspable problem with being heard. He has no problem with screaming his thoughts into the world clearly and loudly, without fear that he’ll actually be heard and misunderstood and that, God forbid, someone sees right through him. 

Maybe that’s part of who he is. 

Unafraid, unwavering in the face of challenge.

So when we arrive at the radio station and my head is throbbing with pain (courtesy of last night’s Fireball-marathon), I try to be as quiet as possible about the whole thing. I don’t speak a word while Jordon rambles on and on and on about how our band is finally taking off and we’re going places that we’ve never imagined ourselves going and whatnot.

It’s nice to listen to him; soothing, almost. I refrain from dwelling on why I happen to think that – I refrain from reminding myself that the only reason why I think Jordon’s words are comforting is because I find Jordon comforting; because I want to be near him even when he’s at his worst. 

His voice is scratchy, heavy with sleep and hangover, as he keeps talking about the new record that we’re working on. It’s gonna be great, he says. He’s been in the studio for weeks, writing together with Aron and George. 

That, of course, is the biggest pile of shit I’ve ever heard. 

We’re not fine. 

We’re not working on anything. 

‘Creative differences’ has become a relatively mild term to describe the utter madness that is happening right now. 

“Anyway, after we hit the studio, we’ll probably get back on tour. You know, the Kingdom, Italy, France – I think Kurlzz here will like France,” says Jordon. 

This time, I forgive him because I am simply too tired to deal with his shit. It is 10 AM on a Sunday in Los Angeles, and I have been drinking Fireball whiskey for eight hours the night before. 

“Why’s that?” asks the clueless, ditzy host. 

“Because they’re very open about, you know, his kind.” Jordon looks as smug as his crippling hangover will allow. 

“His kind?” 

“You know, faggots.” 

The host draws in a sharp breath, announces that ‘we’ll be back after a short pause’, and motions for her producer to play some advertisement clips. 

“You can’t _say that_ on live radio,” hisses the host, her eyes turning dark and angry.

When I fuck her that night, I try not to think about how Jordon’s nonchalant reaction to her obvious distaste for his language is the only thing on my mind. 

 

_4_

The stupidest, stupidest thing about my crush on Jordon is that even though it’s not actively there and bothering me, it’s stuck in the back of my mind like a song that I head on the radio, an easy four-note melody that haunts me even though I’ve tried everything to get rid of it. 

It feels almost like these times when you know you’re coming down with a cold and you can’t do anything to stop it, but at the same time, it’s not quite there and the only thing you feel is an awful sense of foreboding and an awful ache in your bones. 

It’s ironic to think that right now, I’m actually coming down with an actual cold. 

Although ‘coming down’ would be a ridiculous understatement: I’m spiking a fever of thirty-nine, as the dumb European thermometer tells me (that’s about 102 in Fahrenheit, as Jay helpfully supplies during one of the short breaks for air him and Jade take every three minutes or so) and my nose feels completely blocked; and as if that wasn’t enough, Aron is nowhere to be found. 

We’re in goddamn Europe without a lead singer, and we have no idea if our band will survive this tour. 

Of course, this would be one of the most inopportune moments for Jordon to decide to crack a highly inappropriate joke – ha-fucking-ha. 

Only five minutes after I take my temperature yet again, Jordon bursts through the bus’s door. He looks a bit tipsy, with his eyes glazed over and his cheeks reddened. I think we must be somewhere in Germany right now, nearing the border to some other country that no one gives two shits about. I heard someone say that we’re crossing the Austrian border, but that’s ridiculous – what would Australia be doing in the middle of Europe? 

As I lie on the couch, suffering silently, and Jordon makes his way gradually over to the kitchenette where the rest of our alcohol is stashed, I let out a hearty sigh that has my best friend look over at me with vague confusion. 

“Are you sick, Matt?” he asks, and for a second, he sounds genuinely concerned. 

I don’t let myself get too hopeful, though. 

“Yeah,” I reply simply, instead of bursting out a stupid love confession. 

“You look pretty warm,” says Jordon. He’s laughing. 

“You know, Matty,” he goes on, “I just met some lovely Austrian fans of ours. They told me that in Austrian German, another word for gay is ‘warm’.” He snickers. There’s not enough of a slur in his voice for him to be drunk enough to excuse this, I find myself thinking. But it doesn’t matter.

All of this doesn’t matter. 

“And now you’re warm,” says Jordon. 

I feel like I’m going to be sick. 

“You’re so gay that you’re making a metaphor come true,” he says, and bursts out laughing. 

It’s so ridiculous that I almost start laughing too, out of exasperation. But I bite my tongue and wait until the laughter dies down, making room for Jordon’s usual drunk-and-sad bubbling. 

That night, I think of Jordon when I jack off, and I’m too tired to deny it. 

 

_5_

I have always hated weddings. I’ve hated the forced harmony of them, the aggressively pointed displays of love and trust – it’s appalling.

Jade and Jorel’s wedding, however, is heartbreaking. 

Jade has prepared her own song to sing during the ceremony and has chosen none other than ‘Demolition Lovers’ by My Chemical Romance; which is a fucking heartbreaking song in itself. Of course, that’s not where it stops. 

Jorel has been looking like he might throw up at any minute, right until Jade walks through the door of the room, in her beautiful, beautiful wedding dress with her hair done up all fancy and glittering jewelry twisting around her neck and arms. 

And the worst of all, the worst of all is George. He’s sitting there, silently crying tears of joy as he sees his baby sister being wedded to Jorel Decker, out of all people in the whole wide world. 

So of course, I’m crying. 

And that is, of course, a sign of weakness in front of Jordon. 

His speech is long, and it’s cruel. 

Not because he keeps slipping in tiny jokes here and there, no. That would have been better. No; he’s been going on and on and on about what a beautiful couple Jorel and Jade are for about five minutes or so, and there hasn’t been a single offhand comment thrown my way. Not a single mean little smirk; nothing ambivalent that I could also feel offended by if I tried a little harder than I am right now. 

Nothing. 

Just a nice speech. 

That doesn’t last.

Because the grand finale is where the bitch lies. 

“And it’s such a great thing to see one of my brothers marry a girl as great as Jade. I can only hope that each and every one of us finds someone they so perfectly match with – even Matt.” 

There we go. 

I brace myself. 

“Even though Matt not, you know, want someone of the girl variety, judging from how pathetically he was bawling his eyes out during the ceremony.” 

He grins like a child that just cracked the best joke ever. 

“Thank you. To Jade and Jay!” He raises his glass, and the rest of the wedding party does the same, albeit a little dumbfoundedly. 

You know, to anyone else, this might not have been too bad. I mean, one stupid comment at a wedding is nothing compared to the millions of stupid comments that Jordon makes on stages all over the world. 

But this hurts.

That night, I don’t jack off, and I don’t take any girl home. 

 

_5+1_

Danny doesn’t ask questions when he opens the curtain to my bunk one night and sees me crying silently into the open palms of my hands. It is in this moment that I have decided that Danny is, indeed, the best person in the whole wide world we could have possibly asked to join our band in the stead of Aron, whom we have collectively taken to calling ‘Deuce’ when we speak of him now. 

“You know,” says Danny one day, “I think that you’re being too hard on Matt, Jordon.” 

We’re all sitting in a circle, gathered around the small table in the lounge of the bus, drinks in our hands and bottles of jack sitting empty on the table. I don’t know why we haven’t moved to the couch yet, it is incredibly uncomfortable sitting on the small, narrow benches next to each other – like we genuinely enjoy being close to each other, how laughable. 

“Come on, don’t go soft on us now,” says Jay, staring dazedly into distance while twisting the gold band around his finger. He’s been like this for a while now; desperately lost in his marital bliss. No one bothers to bring him down from cloud nine. 

“I’m not going soft on you, I just wanted to say it. We might have some gay fans and they might be a little pissed off that you keep using the word as an insult.” 

Sometimes, I wonder whether Danny can read minds. I wonder whether he has seen through my dumb crush on Jordon from the beginning and whether he’s just desperately trying to get the guy to let me down easy. 

Jordon brushes off the comment with a laugh, as expected.

I sip my beer. 

“Well, don’t dismiss the guy’s sexuality so easily,” says Jordon, a smirk curling the corners of his lips upward. “He’s just trying to find the strength to finally come out.” 

I choke down the ‘Fuck you, Jordon’ that is stuck in my throat, and I also choke down the ‘I’m only gay for you’. I feel like I’m suffocating. 

“This is a bit offensive, don’t you think?” asks Danny. He’s not giving up tonight. Probably because he’s had a few beers, and he always gets a bit too social-justice-y when he does. 

“Jesus Christ, Daniel.” Jordon sounds a bit tired and a bit pissed, but also quite amused by Danny’s display of disgruntlement. “It’s not like this is anything serious. Hell, I’d even kiss the guy to prove the fact that I’m not homophobic.” He laughs; short and with slightly less humor than usually. “Even though I don’t wanna raise some false hope.” His smirk is evil. 

I take a gulp of my drink that is so big, I almost choke. Almost. 

“I mean, with you being as gay as you are, Matty-Boy,” continues Jordon, “You’ll latch onto anything with a dick, right?” He puts down the can of beer in his hand and gives me another evil smile, one that I have come to utterly detest in the past few months. “I don’t mind, though, as long as I’ll always be your favorite.” 

That is when the carefully placed mask of patience finally slips, and I set down my red solo cup with a little too much strength put into the motion. 

“Right,” I say, my voice low. I’m not yelling, but the others are so deafeningly quiet that you could probably hear my words exactly if you were sitting in the back lounge with your fingers stuffed into your ears. “Because I’m not only a fag, but also a slut.” 

I realize, faintly, that this is the first time I have ever purposely talked back to one of Jordon’s ‘funny’ comments. It’s also the first time in months that I’ve looked him dead in the eye, enjoying every little bit of his attention directed straight toward me. 

However, the words I have already said have stung enough, so I simply get up and move toward the bunk section of the bus, where I all but slam the door shut behind me, rolling into my bunk and stuffing in an old pair of earbuds to distract me from the awful bouts of laughter and exclaims of ‘what crawled up that guy’s ass’. 

As I slowly progress my way from Incubus to Guru, I feel myself calmed down immensely. It probably has something to do with the steady buzz that has only now started to settle in. 

I don’t really know how much time has passed until suddenly, the curtain to my bunk is drawn back and none other than the infamous Charlie Scene pokes his head in, eyes glazed from all the drinking he’s been doing and cheeks reddened, a suspiciously hand-shaped mark adorning half of his face. 

“So, Matty,” says Jordon, almost casually. “Are you still mad?” 

I sigh. “No,” I reply, although I’m not quite sure whether I’m actually telling the truth. 

“You are,” Jordon observes. He’s less drunk than I thought – but then again, he’s always been good at acting sober when he was really, really not. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, after a few seconds of awkward pause. “For always being a dick to you.” 

A sad smile walks onto my face without my expressed permission. This has to stop, especially around Jordon. 

“It’s okay,” I say, “It’s part of why we’re friends, isn’t it?” 

I bite my lip, contemplating if I should continue, but my mouth seems to have made up its mind before me. 

“It’s just…would it really be so bad if…if I were actually gay?” I ask. 

Jordon looks thoughtful for a second, and then he charges at me. 

For a second, I think he’s trying to headbutt me or something, and judging from the speed he has going on as he’s coming near me, it looks like he is – but then he slows down and stops a mere inch away from my face. 

“No,” he says determinedly, and kisses me. 

We kiss for what feels like hours, savoring the taste of one another as we move together like we were meant to from the beginning. 

And when we wake up in the morning, tangled up in the sheets and various love-bites scattered all over our necks and shoulders, I burst out laughing suddenly. 

“What’s so funny?” asks Jordon, still a bit groggy from waking up. 

“What’s so funny is,” I explain, “that you’ve been calling me gay since seventh grade, and guess what?” 

“What?” 

“You were right all this time.” 

 

_The End_


End file.
